


Winter's Child

by Socially-ineptnerd (IAmTheRainbowSheep)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Kid Sherlock, Lestrade is Sherlock's father, Lestrade-centric, Parental Lestrade, Paternal Lestrade, Sherlock is on the spectrum, sherlock is a genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:28:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheRainbowSheep/pseuds/Socially-ineptnerd
Summary: Greg Lestrade adopts a four year old Sherlock Holmes after his entire family is murdered. It doesn't take long to see that Sherlock isn't ordinary, but there's a thin line between being a shy genius and a socially challenged child. Greg slowly learns that Sherlock has autism, but denies it for as long as he could, afraid to believe what's right in front of him until he's forced to see it. Then he realizes that maybe it's not the end of the world, because a diagnosis didn't make Sherlock anything other than Sherlock. Spring is coming.





	Winter's Child

It didn't take Greg longer than a month to realize that the child that was now his was no ordinary child. Sherlock was quieter than most children, not exactly energetic in the usual sense, but he was a little ball of energy in other ways. He would ask question after question about this or that, and Greg needed to give a very detailed answer to sate his thirst for more knowledge. Greg liked to call him a little vacuum at times, after witnessing how the little boy seemed to just suck in all the knowledge he could get and store them in his mind.

  
He was a genius.

Yet there was something _different_ about Sherlock, something a bit... off, as the women in the grocer's- far too talkative and judgmental for their own good- would say. Sherlock was smart, definitely, because no five year old child knew the periodic table by heart. No child could tell what you did in that day, analyzing you like a scientist studying a lab rat. 

But there was something different about him that didn't have to do with his intellect.

  
Sherlock was just always in his own little world, reading his latest book- he taught himself to read somehow when Greg would let him wander around in the kids section of the library while he filled out paperwork- or maybe drawing a picture into his journal or solving a rubik's cube so he could mess it up again. Greg often tried to encourage Sherlock to interact with children his age in the hopes that it would help him be more social and step out of his shell, but Sherlock would just let his eyes glaze over the other child and after introductions, he'd return to ignoring the other child, content to be alone.

  
Sighing, Greg walked into Sherlock's bedroom, watching his son building something with legos that he'd probably show to him later when it was finished. "Hey, buddy." He walked over to the bed, sitting down as Sherlock continued to work. A helicopter, Greg realized, spotting the box that the pieces had come from. "Can we talk?"

  
"You're already talking," Sherlock responded softly, and Greg watched the back of Sherlock's head for a few seconds.

  
"Well, yes, I am. But I'd like a conversation where you're facing me and it's actually us talking and not me talking at you." With a sigh, Sherlock got up and sat down on the bed across from Greg, his eyes on the dark blue blanket on his bed. "Your teacher spoke to me, she said that you're not talking to the other kids." A finger twitch, no eye contact. "Sherlock will you... will you look at me?"

  
"What for?" the soft response, nearly a mumble, yet Sherlock's eyes, turquiose, met his for a few seconds before dropping back down.

  
"Your teacher is worried about you. She says you don't talk with any of the other students, you don't play during recess, she's worried that you're still affected by... what happened. Are you?"

  
"I was uncons-cious for all that happened, and when I woke up, I was in the hospital. I'm not tr-ematized," he clumsily used the words he'd only read in the books that he managed to pick from Greg's office. "I wasn't very close with dad number one, and mummy was always at work." There was a few seconds of silence as Greg watched the gears spinning around in Sherlock's brain. "I don't really want to play, or talk with the other kids, they're boring."

Greg knew that Sherlock was a lot better than he was before, during the first week of his stay, with the grief of his parents' loss still fresh. Sherlock, in his own little way, was broken. His eyes reflected the icy waves crashing against the deserted beach, where his mother and step-father's soul would live forever. Sometimes he still had that look in his eyes, as if he were a ghost that was stuck between two worlds, trying to find his footing even as everything spun out of control, caught in a hurricane that had him trapped in the middle. 

\--  
"Is Mummy coming back?" Sherlock had asked two nights after the funeral, voice soft and small, eyes glued to his hands. After two days of almost silence on the topic, no tears or tantrums, no "where's mummy"'s or "I want mummy"'s, Greg had thought that Sherlock was simply too young to understand anything that was going on.

  
Greg pulled Sherlock into his lap, trying to find a good way to phrase it to the four year old child. "No, love, she's not."

  
"Why?"

  
Greg sighed, looking at the flame in the fireplace that made shadows dance on the walls. "Because when people die, it's permanent."

  
Greg caught the way Sherlock frowned, just for a second before his eyes darted up to meet Greg's. " _Why_ do _people_ die?"

  
"I don't know, Sherlock, I just know that they do. Everyone dies in the end, some sooner than others. It's just how life is, and that sucks, but it is what it is and we have to take the hand that we're dealt."  
"Will you die too?" Greg- startled by the question- laughed in surprise, but it was evident by the scowl on Sherlock's face that he didn't find the situation humorous at all. The smile crumbled like dust and Greg nodded. "I don't want you to die. I'll be all alone then. I'll be bored. And I'll be hungry."

  
Greg laughed then, scooping Sherlock into his arms and walking them to Sherlock's bedroom. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm not planning on dying soon. I'm going to grow older, and older, and I'm going to watch you get married and have kids." He set Sherlock down, who smiled softly back at him. "I'm not going to leave you, kiddo, I'll always be here. I'm going to train you how to be a detective, remember?"  
Sherlock grinned at the words, and Greg felt his chest melt with pride. Sherlock wanted to be a detective just like his Papa.

  
\--  
It had been roughly 6 months since Sherlock moved in with him and they had that conversation. And Sherlock- now five years old- had slowly lost the empty look in his eyes, the one that made him seem lost and afraid inside of his own home. He spoke more, he was more open to being around Greg and seemed to have gotten over his fear of losing the only adult he had left in his life as well.

  
Yet the teachers and other adults who came into contact with Sherlock said... things.

  
"I need to talk to you.... it's about Sherlock."

  
"He's academically well off, Mr. Lestrade, don't worry, but-"

  
"-doesn't speak to others very often-"

  
"-reads people like books-"

  
"-always in his own world, that one-"

  
"-needs to learn to be more social-"

  
"-doesn't know how to interact with others properly-"

  
"-he might need extra help."

  
Yet when asked about what exactly was wrong with his child, there was never a straight answer they could provide. They would stammer and shift their eyes, exchange looks that Greg couldn't decipher for the life of him and _he just wanted a damn answer_. He wanted to know why everyone seemed to think there was something broken in his son, who probably surpassed all of their IQ's. Sherlock seemed to be able to tell things about other people, observant in a way that nobody, not even adults, were capable of being.

  
There was an answer to his question though, one that was slowly creeping in at the edges of his mind, one he wasn't sure if he wanted or could bear to receive. He knew, on some level, there was something _different_ about Sherlock, but every time he heard that one word, he felt like he was stuck in the middle of a free-fall.

  
"Are you happy in school?" Greg asked.

  
Sherlock shrugged, his fingers tapping away on his thigh in what may or may not have been the newest violin piece he was learning. Vivaldi. "I like learning, but I don't like the other kids."

  
"Why? Are they bullying you?" A small shake of the head. "You can tell me anything, I won't get mad."

  
Sherlock paused, thinking over what to say, before let out a loud breath. "I don't know why, but I don't like them, they're... loud and messy and dull." He picked at the scab on his arm he got from the coffee table and Greg hastily grabbed his hand, knowing that Sherlock would never let it heal if he was left to his own devices. "There's nothing _wrong_ with me," Sherlock said, "I hear what the teachers and people say. They think I'm a freak."

  
"Where did you hear that word?" Greg asked softly in spite of the burning anger in his throat. After he'd found _his own son_ unconscious and covered in blood from being hit with a blunt instrument with both of his parents murdered, Greg had a right to be overprotective and slightly paranoid. He worked as a cop, he'd seen hundreds of children hurt (or worse) but when he saw his son on the floor, his parents dead in the room next to his, he nearly gagged.

  
"A kid on the playground. Sebastian. Said I'm a freak, I don't really know what I did. His parents are divorcing though, so I guess that could be why he's angry with everything."

  
Greg nodded, deciding to ignore Sherlock's deduction for now. "Well, did you try to make friends with the other kids? All you have to do is try, just say your name and ask if you could join them. Try to fit in a bit more, maybe?"

  
\--  
So they went on like that, in much the same way as they went on before for another two weeks before Greg was called into the headmaster's office, with Sherlock outside, curled up into himself. "You called for me, ma'am?" he asked politely, in spite of the fact that he was at work when he got the call and Donovan had given him a knowing look. She'd been one of the first people to point out that there was something else going on, and although Greg knew it was with good intentions, he couldn't help but get offended.

  
"Yes, sir. I... spoke with William's family doctor, and I went through the files... are you aware that his older brother was... neurodivergent?" she asked, getting right to the point as she read something from the files on her desk.

  
Greg felt his stomach drop, chest beginning to ache, feeling the tendrils of fear and doubt creep back in like they usually did whenever this one forbidden topic was brought up. "No, I didn't... why? Listen, I was at work when you called, and I'd really like to just get back. How is this relevant? Why did you call me in?" he asked, beginning to grow frustrated at this entire situation.

  
The woman across from him- Ms. Norton- merely gave him a sympathetic smile, used to dealing with irate parents on a day-to-day basis just as Greg was used to dealing with corpses and receiving pictures of gory crime scenes in the middle of the dinner. _What's your job, Papa? Can I help?_

  
"Well, we have noticed that your child is having troubles with socializing with other children, and as well as showing some other atypical behavior for children his age, so I called you in to tell you face-to-face that I believe an appointment with a doctor is in order to help him be the best he can be. I've already-" Greg stopped listening after that, his head spinning.

  
Breathe in. Breathe out.

  
_"There's something funny about William, isn't there?"_

  
"He's just grieving."

  
_"An odd child if I've ever seen one."_

  
"He's a genius, could probably do the job of Scotland Yard for them once he's old enough. Even Einstein was a bit odd, if I remember correctly."

  
_"He's a bit off, Greg. You should have him te-"_

  
"Just shut the fuck up, Phil. There's nothing wrong with my son."

  
Except there was, now that someone was forcing him to look, there was something there that moved behind his son's eyes. And no matter how hard he wanted to close his eyes to keep from seeing it, he couldn't close his heart to keep from grieving it. Mourning the loss of his perfect, genius son. It was ridiculous, but here he was anyway, fucking doubled over in the office of Sherlock's headmaster. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock, who was perfectly calm, perfectly collected, almost serene as he stared into Greg's eyes intensely.

  
"I'm still me, Papa," he said with his eyes squinted, uncertainty written on his face, insecure about his words when he shouldn't have to be. Greg, unable to keep looking at Sherlock's face when he was so nervous and confused, pulled the little boy into his arms, burying his face into Sherlock's curls.

  
He breathed deeply, calming his pounding heart. "If at any point you want to back out of this, just tell me and we'll stop going, okay? It's just a test, but there's no right or wrong answers. You just be yourself, okay?" Sherlock nodded, and Greg closed his eyes, trying to steel his nerves.

  
\--  
Sherlock was on the spectrum, Dr. Baynes told him, but had the IQ of a genius. After countless months waiting for a confirmation or denial of the fact, Greg had gotten somewhat used to the idea. The diagnostic process was tiring, painful, and often led to heartache and frustration, but at least now Greg had a _name_ for it. He knew what Sherlock struggled with and how to make things easier on the lad.

  
Sherlock was 6 years old now, at the top of his classes, and attended a school that was perfect for him, free of nasty little boys and girls that called him a freak or a psychopath (which some weird kid in the fifth grade decided to call him once). He was a gifted child, called twice exceptional becauce he was both academically blessed but very challenged.

  
Greg realized that a diagnosis, no matter how much he'd been taught throughout his life was worse than a terminal sickness, didn't change his son. It didn't make Sherlock anything other than Sherlock, it just described him. It was an explanation of Sherlock's quirks rather than a way of saying that Greg didn't know how to parent. It wasn't a personal flaw, Greg learned, it was something written in Sherlock's DNA. And that was okay.

  
There were hard times, yes, like when he tried to take Sherlock to the restaurant during lunch hour and everything was too loud for Sherlock and they had to leave. Greg resolutely ignored the questioning looks, the pitying voices, the confused murmurs of the older patrons. And there were times when Greg was at the end of his rope and just wanted to cry alongside Sherlock, because he wanted to make it better but couldn't. Something inside of his bled and continued to bleed every time he saw the self inflicted wounds on Sherlock's skin after his melt downs.

  
But the winter was over, spring was coming, and they still had a long way to go.

  
Sherlock had almost mastered the piece he'd spent countless days learning to play on the violin, the one by Vivaldi. It was called Four Seasons, and a piece was written for each of them. Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring. Sherlock was still working on Spring, he still had to memorize the finger placements and the right timing for it. But it was coming along, and Greg found that Spring was his favorite.

  
Spring was coming soon. Greg could _feel_ it.

  
The night was ending, and Greg could feel the first traces of dawn. It was okay, everything would be okay, Greg was certain of it, because nothing had changed. Sherlock was still his little detective who could know weird things about peoples lives with a look, a boy who needed to be sung to at night so he could fall asleep, he was still the same kid who obsessed over bees and murderers. Greg wouldn't want him any other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> I got this prompt from a lovely person on tumblr, whose URL is princesspeach212, they're mainly responsible for my creation of this fic. My username is socially-ineptnerd, and moriarty-is-stayinalive, if anyone would like to drop a prompt or send me an ask. Tell me about what you think of the story, I'd love to hear some feedback, what you liked, what you didn't like, what I can fix or work on.
> 
> https://socially-ineptnerd.tumblr.com/


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